The Soup and Sorrow Digest

Rico becomes a man.

The following Saturday, Ricardo awoke with the tender icicles of light in his eyes and his heart contracting in anticipation. Steve had not called back in the past two days, and anymore waiting would break him.  He arose and looked over the telephone in the twilight corner of the room, and anticipation gave away to a feeling of kinship.  His view of a Care Bear poster on front wall  readjusted in the softness of the morning, and suddenly things seemed upbeat.  He stumbled into the kitchen and was satisfied with the clean shine of the sink. It was peacefully clean now, before Elena would rise and splatter the counters with her interpretation of guacamolé.  The precious order of the kitchen was comforting; it situated him back into the Selena’s kitchen and her feminine bellows to wash those dishes, clean that mess.  He smiled to himself, wondering if Steve had to deal with such particularities from his mother.  Probably not.  His mother came across as the do-everything-for-your-only-son type.

He wondered other things about Steve. Did he like to eat meatballs in even numbers? Or cross himself before going to bed?  When did they begin to become aware of each other? Questions but no answers. He shook his head and proceeded to pour himself a bowl of cereal.

Cold and sweet. He remained standing, listening to the morning buzz through the closed windows, then the muffled blare of the alarm radio from Elena’s room.   Ten seconds on the tastiness of the new coke formula gliding over the irate, mumbling silence.  The inviting heat of Steve’s bodily presence snuck up on him.  He surrendered the spoon in the white bowl and for a harried moment, pictured Steve’s insisting fingers on his groin. What a day! Ricardo tumbled into acknowledging laughter and ate more spoonfuls of cereal.  What happened, happened.  There was no use trying to ignore that day’s hysterics and the theatrics.  He liked it.  He wanted more.

Spoon after spoon, Ricardo ate quicker now, like he was fleeing away from the ghastly imprint of himself.  The moment had just been a moment, less than ten minutes, but it had ruled his life mercilessly. Besides, where was Steve?

The trombone player had run away, left him alone; in a wild sense, betrayed him.  Right, abandoned him.  And why did he call him anyway?  To talk about what exactly? How much it sucks to be a faggot? Coño! What happened to being straight and asking Rosa out?

Remembering he had not seen Rosa lately, he resigned himself to the pasty-looking well of milk, the sickly white film coating the silver of his spoon.  Why did fuck I call him?

The radio blared again and he heard Elena swear sleepily back at it. It was a bright, irrepressible morning; it was no time to angst or be aggravated.  He should be more concerned about a smoked up Elena demanding his parents for money.  Speaking of which, he should see Felipe about Julio and the money in the drop box.

***

Ricardo came up to Felipe’s house and the tight line of cars bracketing the street. By Felipe’s mailbox, a sports car glimmered red and smooth in the strong afternoon light.  He stopped and drooled.  Now how many tacos would he have to forgo in order to have a beauty like that? Too many, not enough.  Carlos had a sweet car too. Sighing, he turned into the walkway leading to the front steps.  There was no time to think of sweet cars when there was less than fifty bucks in his pocket.

Before he could knock, the door opened to Felipe and a sweaty-looking Robert. Ricardo smiled at them both, and thought secretly the short fat Hispanic and the lumbering heavy Robert made a good team

“Señor Pedo Bob, how’s the music business?” Ricardo said, ebulliently.

Robert obliged to look at him. “You wore that stupid shirt when you dated that girl?”

“What girl?” Felipe asked.

Ricardo dimmed and looked over Felipe’s fat cheeks.

“Neña thinks he likes women.” Robert sniffled his affirmation.